


Between Ink And Blood

by Candamira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beer, Brewer Draco, Community: hd_owlpost, Drarry, Falling In Love, Getting Together, HP: EWE, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Moving Tattoo(s), Northern Ireland, Ocean, Original Character(s), Outdoor Sex, Quidditch, Quidditch Player Harry, Rimming, Sex on a storm-tossed sea stack, Thunder and Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/pseuds/Candamira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yes. Just – how did you know? I didn't know myself that I want a tattoo until I saw the Hungarian Horntail," Harry said. Druid shrugged. "It's hard to explain, my magic sings to me and then I just <i>know</i>. It's a druidic gift passed on from father to son since the early days, together with a message every male in my family gets as his first tattoo." He showed Harry the inner side of his forearm. The dark green of the calligraphic writing stood starkly against the pallor of the skin: <i>Be careful with the lines you draw because there is a secret world between ink and blood where they will come alive</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Ink And Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleblackbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackbow/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to you, dear chibitoaster/littleblackbow! I love your art, and I hope I can give you back a bit of the joy I always feel when looking at one of your pictures with the little thing I wrote for you. The plot bunny hopped from wish to wish and the outcome was quite surprising even to me. Erm, yeah. *shoves fic at you* And now it's yours to love and take care of :D. 
> 
> Dear owlmasters, kitty_fic and vaysh, thank you for manning the owlery and organizing delivery of all the gifts (and being so patient with those who needed an extension)! 
> 
> This fic wouldn't be worth reading without the help of my more than lovely betas, iwao and germankitty, who helped me wrap this up until it looked like a present. Thank you both so much for your excellent beta work! Not to forget my stalwart alpha reader N – thank you, love! 
> 
> All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> A translation of all Irish/Gaelic expressions can be found at the end of the fic. There's also a list of Irish names and their meanings.  
> One last thing I want to mention: The Ballycastle in this fic doesn't exist; I took the artistic freedom to fictionally merge Ballycastle in Northern Ireland which is the home of the Ballycastle Bats and Ballycastle in County Mayo, Ireland where Dún Briste is to be found.

**"Maireann croi eadrom i bhfad."**  
_A merry heart lives long._

Harry looked up at the ceiling and smiled. Tom, long-serving publican of the Leaky Cauldron, had found a new way to show that a table was reserved: A white flag with the emblem of the Montrose Magpies flapped over their heads, telling everybody that they – the most successful Quidditch team of the season – were celebrating at the Leaky tonight. A glance around the table proved that almost every Magpie was already there; only Ron was still missing.

Harry pondered the situation while he made his way over to the bar, raising his empty pint to indicate to Tom that he wanted another O'Flamy's Dark Draught. Ron usually wasn't one to miss a victory party.

With a thankful nod, Harry accepted the fresh beer from Tom and walked back to his chair. He sighed and watched tiny droplets of condensation roll down the outside of the glass and over the emblem of the new Irish brewery. Absentmindedly, he traced the snake that wound itself three times around a wooden beer barrel, replacing the traditional iron bands. There was no use in pretending that nothing had changed: He didn't see much of his best friends since Ron and Hermione had started a family.

Harry took a large sip of his drink. The malty flavour reminded him of Butterbeer, and Butterbeer reminded him of the good old times, when he and Ron and Hermione had been inseparable.

Angelina, who sat beside him, poked him in the ribs and Harry snapped out of his beer- and past-related musings.

"Harry, is it true that we are going to play a friendly against the Ballycastle Bats next week? In Ireland?" Her huge brown eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Oh no!" George pulled her onto his lap and held her tight. "Captain, you're not allowed to take her away from me again so soon! I am resigned to barely seeing her during the season, but now it's over and I want some alone-time with my wife." He shot her a meaningful look.

Harry smiled fondly at them. It was good to see George joking, he'd been too serious for too long after his twinbrother Fred had died in the Battle of Hogwarts. With a dash of nostalgia Harry watched Angelina pulling George's arms tighter around herself. Maybe if he had tried harder, he might have been able to save his relationship with Ginny. But no. Nothing could have fixed it after accepting he was gay.

Ginny was a fantastic person; the only reason for him to break up with her was the unfortunate circumstance of her being a _woman_. It had been the right thing to do and though it had taken a while before they both had found a way to handle the new situation, they were fine now.

Angelina leaned back to kiss George on the cheek before she turned to Harry again. "Never mind him. He's just angry because he'll have to do the laundry spells all by himself."

Harry grinned, glad for the distraction. "How do you know about Ireland? I wanted to announce it tonight, as soon as everybody had arrived." Harry watched the door from the corner of his eye, but Ron still wasn't showing up. "What's up with Ron, by the way? He's late very often recently."

Angelina and George exchanged a look, and Harry slapped his forehead. "But of course! Is Hermione pregnant again? I remember how it was during the first three months with Rose." He frowned at George and Angelina. "You two already know. Why didn't they tell me?"

His friends exchanged another glance. Angelina's eyes lost their teasing spark when she looked at him. "Oh Harry. They didn't want to upset you. You know, with them already getting their second child and with you not even dating anyone…"

Harry shook his head. "Really. I can't tell you lot often enough that I'm fine. I like my life the way it is. Why doesn't anybody ever believe me?" They laughed kindheartedly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, Harry. Of course. You're fine. We know."

Harry sighed again. They didn't believe him, he saw it in the way they winked at him. Well, he couldn't help them. He _was_ fine.

A cool breeze made him look at the entrance, and he smiled when he saw Ron closing the door. "Sorry, mate. 'Mione's not too well and I had to make her tea and then she asked me to Floo over to The Burrow to get her some of Mom's oatmeal biscuits." Ron shrugged apologetically and sat down beside Harry. Harry decided to let him get away with that. For now. No need to discuss most private issues at a place as public as the Leaky.

He rapped on the table a few times until he had the attention of his team. "As you probably all know already—" he shot a glance at Angelina – "we are going to play a friendly match against the Ballycastle Bats next week. They invited us to stay from Thursday till Sunday." They all cheered and started bombarding him with questions.

"Do we need to iron our uniforms?" Harry laughed because that question was so typical of Angelina.

"Great. I'll have Irish stew every day!" Ron, of course. Who else would care so much about food when there was a match to play?

Harry patiently answered every single question, then leaned back in his chair and watched them all chatting and laughing and drinking. He felt strangely out of place. Downing the rest of his beer, he told himself firmly that he _was_ fine. All he needed was another drink to rekindle his high spirits.

__________________________________

  
**Thursday**

**"Céad Míle Fáilte."**  
_One hundred thousand welcomes._

Harry squinted against the blinding reflection of sunlight scattered across the water of Ballycastle's harbour basin. Small fishing boats bobbed gently up and down and a few seagulls fought over something he didn't want to take a closer look at. He liked Ballycastle. It was exactly as he'd imagined a traditional Irish village would look like, full of charm and character and original buildings. Like the one in front of which Finbar Quigley, Captain of the Ballycastle Bats, stopped.

"Here we are." Finbar pointed at the narrow brick house, causing Harry to gift him with a disbelieving glance. Finbar had offered to show him the training pitch of the Ballycastle Bats, and the tattoo studio located on the shop’s ground floor didn't look like a Quidditch pitch at all. Maybe it was a kind of gate, like the brick wall at the back of the Leaky Cauldron.

But in contrast to the deliberately unobtrusive facade of the Leaky, the front of the tattoo studio looked inviting. Very dark green wood framed a large shop window with a broad white sill and a sign hung in the small glass panel on the door. _Céad Míle Fáilte – One hundred thousand welcomes_. He cupped his hands around his face and leaned against the window to peer inside. Everything looked clean and neat, nothing hinted at a magical passage.

Finbar clapped him on the shoulder. "You can have a closer look inside. I want to introduce you to Druid before I show you our pitch. He is our referee. I hope he offers us a coffee, it’s really fab! I keep telling him to close the studio and open a coffee shop instead." He reached for the shop sign which dangled over their heads and gave it a light push. It swung wildly, making it hard for Harry to read the rune-like letters: Druid's Den – Magical Tattoos.

"But of course he'd never do that. He says his magic sings loudest when he applies his talent to finding the right tattoo for everybody. And it's true, he's famous for his inks. Druid's Den is the best tattoo studio I know. You'll see why in a minute."

Finbar dragged him to the door and opened it. "Druid, comrádaí! Where are you? I want to introduce you to my friend Harry of the Montrose Magpies!"

A red-haired man – Druid, Harry assumed – appeared out of a small room behind the counter. The door closed slowly, allowing Harry to catch a glimpse into a tiny kitchen. Druid cautiously carried a steaming black mug featuring a blood-red bat with spread wings hovering in front of two crossed brooms – the emblem of the Ballycastle Bats. Harry liked him at first glance. With his long red braid, freckled face and ripped build Druid reminded him of Charlie Weasley.

Druid placed his coffee mug on the counter and greeted them with a broad grin. "Finbar, mo deartháir!" They clasped hands, pulled their fists to each other's heart and pounded each others’ backs in a half-embrace. It was obvious that they liked each other very much.

Finbar gestured at Harry. "This is Harry Potter, Seeker of the Montrose Magpies. And just to mention it, he's the one who killed Voldemort and saved our mudblood-y souls." Harry grinned at Druid. "Someone had to do it." Usually he didn't like to be that easygoing about this particular topic, but he knew Finbar didn't mean offense and in a way it was good to be finally able to take it more lightly. Maybe that would help with the nightmares.

"Harry Potter, it's an honour to meet you. Are you here for a tattoo or did Finbar drag you in for a cup of my fabulous coffee? Sometimes I ponder the idea of turning the studio into a coffee shop because I seem to be equally famous for my needle and my brew."

"Coffee would be great, thanks."

"Alright. Why don't you have a look at the pictures over there, and maybe Finbar can tell you about their meanings while I go and get you two a cup?"

"Sounds good to me. Finbar?" Finbar had already walked the few steps to a wall that was covered with professional Muggle photographs of tattoos Druid had done.

Harry joined him. "Why are they Muggle-made?"

"Can you imagine how chaotic it would be if all pictures on that wall were moving?" Finbar looked at Harry with raised eyebrows.

"Ah, I understand. Probably quite disturbing, with all these beasts and creatures hanging here."

"Right. And of course they would scare the Muggle tourists who want to get a tattoo as a long-term memory of their holiday here." Finbar rolled up his sleeve and revealed an ornament. "Look, I got mine here, too."

Harry inspected it closely, mesmerised by the lines which twisted around each other in an endlessly iterating loop. "It's beautiful. Druid must be very skilled, I've seldom seen such captivating work!" Tearing away his eyes was a bit of a struggle.

"It's an Irish knot. Mine is a Triskele, but there are others." Harry followed Finbar to a section of eight pictures that hung further down the wall, all showing shoulders or upper arms adorned with an Irish knot.

"Ah, here is one like yours." He pointed at a photo of a triangular ornament in the middle of the upper row.

"Yes, right. I wanted a Triskele because they represent the way our life is entwined with others. Tying the knot is an old Celtic ritual that equals a modern marriage. My wife and I both got this tattoo the day after our wedding. It's a symbol of our bonding on more than only the, er, physical level." Harry grinned when Finbar blushed with his last words.

"So the triangular ones are about relationships. What about the circular ones?"

"They're said to be symbols of the cycle of life, or eternity, because of their endless quality."

"Hm." Harry didn't like the idea of eternal life. In his own experience, craving immortality only caused trouble. "And the meaning of the square ones?"

"They are shield knots. In the old days, they were placed on battle shields or near sick people to protect them from evil spirits."

"I could have used one of them when I had to face Voldemort. I think I would have got one if I had known about them."

Finbar made a gesture that included all pictures on the wall. "Well, if you still think about getting a tattoo, take your time and look around. You'll find something, I'm sure. Ah, here's Druid with the coffee! Thank you, comrádaí!" Passing a mug to Harry, he took his and launched into a conversation with Druid that was so riddled with Gaelic expressions that Harry tuned it out to concentrate on the photographs.

He'd never seriously pondered the idea of getting a tattoo, but Druid's were so intriguing that he wanted to see more of them. Enjoying the earthy flavour of the strong coffee, he wandered along the wall until a very large picture caught his attention. He stepped back to get a better look at it and immediately forgot about everything else.

A Hungarian Horntail was inked into the pale skin of a man's back. It was done in black and white and all shades of grey in between. Harry admired the way Druid had captured the haughty, fearsome spirit of the magical creature so perfectly, that even though it was a Muggle photograph, he expected it to snap at him any moment.

The dragon's eyes glinted and his gaze seemed to follow Harry's every move. The scales appeared to be real, hard and sleek, and the fangs gleamed with saliva while the jaws were closed in what looked like an evil grin.

The longer he looked, the more details Harry discovered which made the dragon a unique piece of art. And the pale back was a perfect canvas for this mighty motif. His gaze followed the spine up to the nape where strands of very fair hair had escaped a short, shaving-brush-sized ponytail, adding a touch of softness to the otherwise harsh picture.

Fascinated, Harry decided that he didn't need further inspiration: He wanted a Hungarian Horntail on his back.

Besides, he thought, touching the stray locks on the photograph, he may have found something else. Something he hadn't even been looking for.

He knew exactly one person with skin as pale and hair as fair – Draco Malfoy.

Who had disappeared from Britain's wizarding community right after his trial, never to be seen again. Whom Harry wasn't able to forget because Draco showed up in his dreams every other night.

Harry took an absent-minded sip from his mug and grimaced at the bitter taste of the cold coffee, realising that he must have stared at the picture for quite some time. Determinedly, he turned around. Finbar and Druid looked up, alerted by his sudden movement.

"It's one of my favourites, too." Druid smiled knowingly. "The Hungarian Horntail was perfect for that client. But you are a very different kind of person, so for you it will be another dragon. I guess you'll have to trust me with this. Shall we start?"

Harry took another sip of his mug – which he regretted immediately – and pondered the suggestion. Finally, he swallowed, downing every doubt together with the cold coffee.

"Yes. Just – how did you know? I didn't know myself that I want a tattoo until I saw the Hungarian Horntail," Harry said. Druid shrugged. "It's hard to explain, my magic sings to me and then I just _know_. It's a druidic gift passed on from father to son since the early days, together with a message every male in my family gets as his first tattoo." He showed Harry the inner side of his forearm. The dark green of the calligraphic writing stood starkly against the pallor of the skin: _Be careful with the lines you draw because there is a secret world between ink and blood where they will come alive_.

"It means that the tattoo will move on your skin which can cause a prickling sensation," Druid said. Harry nodded, his brain already occupied with trying to find a way to phrase his last question without embarrassing himself by sounding like a coward. It didn't work. "Will it hurt?"

"No, you really don't have to worry. My treatment combines a strong healing potion I developed together with our local healer and a very effective Murtlap ointment which will take care of any remaining sore spots until tonight. Though I don't think there will be any left because Finbar offered to stay with us and frequently cast an Episkey to make sure you'll be able to play the friendly match in perfect healthy condition."

"Looks as if you've thought of everything. Let's get started!" Harry was already shucking off his jumper and t-shirt.

Druid opened a small phial. "Fine, you won't regret that decision! Here's the potion, you have to drink it before so the healing process can begin as soon as the first prick is done."

The potion looked and smelled familiar, almost like Pepper Up, and Harry swallowed it in one large gulp. He gave the phial back to Druid who waved invitingly at the padded bench table which stood in the back of the shop. "Please make yourself comfortable, it will take a while."

Harry lay down on his stomach, looking at the floor through the opening for his face. It ensured that he didn't have to turn his head to the side, which would have twisted the skin of his back. Finbar sat beside him on a chair to keep him company and started chatting right away. Harry closed his eyes.

The needle purred, Druid drew line after line, dabbing Harry's skin with a cloth from time to time. Finbar's voice became a soft noise in the background – except when he cast the occasional Episkey – and Harry allowed himself to get lost in memories.

 _Fiendfyre_. Demon's Fire. Fire conjured by Dark Magic. Flames shooting up around them, chasing them. Unbearably hot, lethal, unquenchable. Grey eyes, wide from fear of dying. Malfoy's sudden weight on his broom, Malfoy's arms tight around his waist. Fiery beasts reaching out for them, fanged mouths opened to swallow them whole, flaming serpents and chimaeras hunting them to burn them to ashes. Malfoy's nose pressed between his shoulder blades, both of them bent over the broom's handle to go faster, to escape. To stay alive.

Grey eyes, thankful and proud. A mouth, not talking, but telling. A touch, not deliberate, but meaningful. A not-asked question. A moment of indecision. A not-given answer.

Harry opened his eyes. He had to know. "Who is that bloke with the dragon tattoo?"

"He's a regular coffee-guest of mine," Druid said. Harry was about to ask for the name of that specific coffee-guest, but Finbar saved him the question.

"It's Dragan O'Flamy. He runs the local brewery. O'Flamy's Finest Brews, you probably know his beers." Finbar bent down on the chair and stuck his head under the bench table to look Harry into the eye. "You know what? I could arrange a tour of the brewery for our teams. With a beer-tasting afterwards. What do you think? That'd be fun, wouldn't it?"

Harry smiled at Finbar because the Irishman got so excited by his own idea. "Brilliant idea! We are very fond of O'Flamy's Finest Brews in London. Actually, the Dark Draught is my favourite."

"It's settled, then. I'm going to send him a Patronus." Finbar stood up to cast the spell and a tiny squirrel made of silvery mist with an enormous bushy tail dashed through Harry's field of view.

Harry allowed his eyes to slid closed again. _Dragan O'Flamy_. Sounded Irish. Was Slytherin.

__________________________________

  
**Thursday**

**"Meallan muilte dé go mall ach meallan siad go mion."**  
_God's mill may grind slowly, but it grinds finely._

Draco grinned to himself while he checked whether everything and everyone was prepared for the visit of the Quidditch teams. He scratched point after point off his check-list and was very pleased with himself and his staff. Taking into consideration that they were Muggles, they had met his expectations very well. Only, of course, because he had trained them so well and because jobs at the brewery were among the best-paid in the area. 

Draco's thoughts drifted back to his childhood at Malfoy Manor where the house-elves had taken care of all the cleaning and tidying up. No one had to train them, and trying to pay them was the worst insult. And no wizard would ever have considered hiring Muggles. But times had changed, and so had he. 

Dragan O'Flamy didn't need house-elves any more, he could care for himself. Dragan O'Flamy was getting along with Muggles very well, though he didn't trust them farther than he could throw a gnome. Today, at least, they hadn't disappointed him. He looked around the production hall one more time and nodded. Everything was clean, in order and presentable. House-elves couldn't have done better.

He opened the door to the degustation room and checked the walk-in refrigerator. It was well stored with kegs and bottles of every kind of O'Flamy's Finest Brews. The glasses on the shelves above the bar were polished and pristine. 

With a satisfied smile he vanished the list and grabbed a bottle from the fridge beneath the bar. He uncapped it and walked outside, sitting down on the wooden bench beside the entrance, as he enjoyed the autumn sun and the beer. The Montrose Magpies and the Ballycastle Bats would appear on his doorstep in half an hour. 

The Montrose Magpies. He sat up straight, the bottle smashed on the ground and beer spilled over his custom-made shoes. He didn't care right then. The Montrose Magpies consisted completely of former Hogwarts students including the one person he had been avoiding so carefully during the past years – Harry Potter.

Resignedly, Draco remembered one of the Irish proverbs Finbar's wife was full of, something about God's mill grinding slowly, but finely. Now he understood what it meant: One could run for a while, but destiny would find one in the end. Well, at least one could look as good as possible now that the day had come.

"Evanesco!" The shards of glass disappeared, as did the foamy puddle of beer. A few gentle waves of his wand and a whispered Tergeo took care of the spots on his shoes and trousers, and in no time his appearance was impeccable again.

Draco shook his head in half-amused anger. The Montrose Magpies – all former Gryffindors. Causing trouble just by thinking of them. Of course it had to be a bunch of Gryffindors who would find him in his cosy hideaway in the north of Ireland even though he'd been so careful not to leave any traces.

He was proud of the elegant – _Slytherin_ – way he'd left wizarding Britain behind and started a successful business, selling his beer to the people who hated him, living well off the money they paid for it. All it had taken was a very advanced glamour, applied to each of his official documents, which had the effect that to all curious eyes, his name now read Dragan O'Flamy.

An alarm signal in one of the mash-tanks' thermometers went off. Startled, Draco checked his watch – good grief, he'd been lost in thought for too long. His visitors would arrive any minute. As the alarm continued to shrill nerve-wracking, Draco made a mental note to have a word with the brew-master on duty and as if the man had sensed the threat, the signal stopped abruptly.

Draco went inside, pacing the hearth rug in front of the visitors' fireplace in anxious anticipation.

To his relief, the Bats arrived a bit early. Draco greeted them enthusiastically, glad to have his Irish friends to work as a buffer between him and the Gryffindors who appeared right on time. Not that he didn't fully trust his communication skills to get him through any awkward situation, but Gryffindors were known to blurt out everything that came to their minds and it wasn't a hard guess what that would be when they saw him. He wasn't eager to fight over things he'd done wrong when he was a frightened, misled teenager.

When the Gryffindors finally stepped out of the fireplace he was genuinely surprised to find them more reserved than offensive. Even Potter. Though they all gave him some strange looks and repeated his new name as if it had a funny ring to it, they were nice enough to not give away his true identity.

Draco started the tour. "Welcome to O'Flamy's Finest Brews. My name is Dragan O'Flamy and brewing is my passion. Consider yourselves lucky, because today, I'll share some of my secrets on how to create excellent beer with you."

Draco paused, setting his eyes on the Quidditch players who clung to his words. Except Potter, whose green gaze captured and held his for longer than proper manners allowed. Draco deliberately averted his eyes and fought the urge to loosen his tie. Instead, he cleared his throat and continued.

"The first secret of my success is not leaving anything to chance. I'm very particular about the quality of primary products and meeting hygienic standards." Potter's stare got a bit annoying. Didn't professional Quidditch players get training on how to behave in public? Had none of those probably very expensive trainers for social competencies taught the man to _not stare at people because it's impolite_? Draco balled his left hand into a fist in order not to fiddle with a cuticle at his thumb. Grimly, he reminded himself that he'd done this tour so often he could do it in his sleep. Or while piercing green eyes stared at him unwaveringly. No problem.

"Our next attraction is our brewing coppers." As Draco had expected, they were impressed by the huge, shiny, bulbous cauldrons. "Here, we add the hop to the mash." Draco lovingly touched the clean surface of the nearest brewing copper. "Questions?"

"Yes. When does the tasting start?" Only a Gryffindor could ask such a blunt question. The whole group burst out laughing and Draco did his best to stay calm and not roll his eyes at Jimmy Peakes. "I'm flattered that you are so eager for my beer and I will come to an end as soon as possible to not make you suffer any longer than necessary." Draco forced a smile on his lips.

He guided them through heavy plastic curtains to the filling plant where he stopped at the conveyor band and grabbed an open bottle to raise it for a toast: "And now, enjoy the freshest O'Flamy's Finest Brew you'll ever get!" They whistled and couldn't get their hands on the bottles fast enough.

"Please join me for the tasting in the degustation room over there in about ten minutes. Thank you." Draco opened the door to the room, glad to have some time to himself. Incredible how exhausting it was to avoid Potter's eyes all the time.

He stepped behind the circular bar from where he would explain and serve the beer samples and started lining up glasses on the counter. Of course, the first person to show up was – _who would have guessed_ – Potter. Potter seemed to be as uncomfortable as Draco himself now that they were alone with each other. Draco put his hands on the counter, Potter hid his in the pockets of his jeans.

He looked up at Draco. "I'm sorry. Jimmy's a bit bold sometimes. The tour was really interesting."

"Thank you." Draco prided himself on being eloquent in any situation, but now he had to rack his brain for an innocuous remark. _What to say to the man who'd saved his life the last two times they had seen each other?_ Looking into Potter's eyes, drowning in the different shades of green like in the waves of the Great Lake on a windy day, didn't exactly help with finding neutral conversational topics. The green waves turned into a maelstrom, causing Draco's mind to whirl around and around, erasing every shallow thought except the one question that really mattered.

"Does it haunt you, too?" Draco bit his tongue, embarrassed by the slip. _Never show a Gryffindor your weaknesses._ Well, that once very important rule of life had gone a bit rusty over the years he hadn't made use of it. But, instead of sneering at him or making a sarcastic remark as he had expected, Potter only shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. His eyes darkened, as if the memories cast a shadow over them.

"Every other night," he murmured.

They kept looking at each other until Draco had to drop his gaze because the eye contact got too intense. He busied himself with drawing them each a Dark Draught, to find some time to gather his wits.

So Potter dreamed of their desperate broom-ride, too. He was in Potter's dreams every other night – like Potter was in his. Draco almost smiled at the thought. Though these dreams were nightmares, Draco wouldn't exchange them for anything. Because they were also precious memories.

Memories of how it felt to cling to Potter as tightly as possible and to press his nose between Potter's shoulder blades, greedily inhaling his scent of sweat, earth, and nights spent in the woods, when all there was left to smell was burned wood and molten metal. A last, faint beacon of hope, shining brighter than the hellfire roaring around them. Reminding him that not all was lost, not yet, not as long as he could follow that slight trail of Potter's scent to safety.

For Draco, Potter's scent was forever connected with greatest danger and excitement, a strange mixture of emotions that had him waking up from his nightmares with a morning glory as hard as the broom-handle they'd escaped on.

Draco wondered if Potter ever experienced similar symptoms.

He handed one of the pints to Potter. "Here. It's a Dark Draught, best when served freshly tapped from the keg."

"I like your beer, Malfoy. Dark Draught is my favourite. In London, I drink it all the time. At the Leaky."

Draco's eyes followed Potter's sturdy thumb as it stroked the emblem of O'Flamy's Finest Brews, tracing the loops of the snake's body. He filed the picture away for later, sure he'd find a use for it in the darkness of his bedroom, beneath the warmth of his quilt. Thinking of a reply, he took a sip from his own pint. "It's Dragan now. O'Flamy."

"A nice name. Very Irish."

"Oh, I _am_ Irish now. I even play the fiddle!"

"You changed a lot, indeed." There was no irony in Potter's voice. Draco allowed himself a proper look at him, avoiding his dangerous, stormy eyes. Potter's glasses were new and suited his face much better than the silly round ones he'd worn during their school years. 

And not only the glasses were different. They were both different people now. Life was full of surprises – maybe now he could get what he had been denied that bloody day when they had first met at Madam Malkin's. When he had been a spoiled kid, trapped in a fanatical system of believes, raised to be a Death-Eater: Potter's friendship.

"If you like my beer so much, why don't you come to my pub tonight? It's Pub Quiz night and my band is doing a seisún." Draco's pulse rushed. He tried not to show it and held Potter's gaze calmly.

"Of course, I'll be there. Thank you. And if you wouldn't mind, I think, the teams would like to come, too."

"Come to what?" Johnson-Weasley poked her curly black head through the door. "Ah, here you are. I was just wondering if I had to check the bathroom for you two."

Draco swallowed. He remembered Johnson well enough to know that she was one for bold jokes, the right match for a Weasley twin, in fact. The incident with Sectumsempra in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom wasn't his favourite memory, he'd never joke about it. But it wouldn't do to show a Gryffindor your weakness, ever.

He took a pint from the shelf and pulled one of the beer taps to fill it. "Sit down, Mrs Johnson-Weasley. We'll start with O'Flamy's Dark Draught. It's popular for its malty taste and the light fizz. We achieve that effect by—"

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy. Just give me my pint." She tried to grab it while he held it out of her reach. 

"Revenge tastes best cold. Like beer." Draco enjoyed himself; he'd almost forgotten how much fun it was to tease the Gryffindors.

"Do you really want to risk a Slug-Vomiting Charm by an angry Mrs Weasley, Malfoy?" Johnson shouted. Draco remembered Molly Weasley successfully firing a lethal curse at his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, and set the glass down on the bar to send it sliding towards Johnson with a soft push.

"Who is Malfoy?" Finbar had entered the room.

They turned around to face him. "Just somebody we used to know," they all said in unison. Draco grinned. Gryffindors really weren't that bad. Cautiously, he started to look forward to spending the evening in their company.

__________________________________

  
**Thursday evening**

**"Go líonfadh fuaimeanna an cheoil áthasch agus an gáire ceolmhar Éireannach do chroíse le sonas, a bhfanfadh go deo ina dhiaidh."**  
_May the sound of happy music_  
_And the lilt of Irish laughter_  
_Fill your heart with gladness_  
_That stays forever after._

They had all come. Draco peered at the crowded tables from behind his fiddle and tried to analyse the strange emotion in his heart. Good grief, he hadn't suffered such a wave of nostalgia in forever. Why would he now? He swallowed and kept plucking the strings, tuning his instrument.

With so many of his former fellow students sitting in his pub and talking about old times, he couldn't avoid the question he'd often asked himself after his trial: How would life have been as a Gryffindor? The wish to sit with them and join their joking and their laughter was strong. But – though they had been nice enough during the tour and the degustation – he doubted they would accept him in their ranks so soon. Expecting too much would only ruin his night.

He rang a small bell that hung from the glass shelf above the bar. "Dear guests from here and far away, thank you all for joining us tonight for our little seisún. I hope you're enjoying yourselves!" All Magpies and Bats cheered and rapped their knuckles approvingly on the tables.

"Thank you! I wouldn't have thought otherwise. Please give some love to my dear friends who’ll be playing for us tonight." He raised his pint. "Cairde – friends – it's a joy to play the Fidil with you." Draco applauded the band and loud cheers and hoots erupted from the tables, proving that all vocal cords were well oiled with O'Flamy's Finest or Dark Draught and that the mood was buoyant.

Draco lifted his fiddle to his neck and started playing. Soon tables and chairs were moved, until all the Quidditch players were sitting in a large circle. They swayed back and forth with the rhythm of the first ballad. It consisted of several verses and Potter took Draco by surprise when he started to sing along with the chorus. Soon the whole group joined him, and the song acquired a happy note with their cheerful voices.

"Line, twine, the willow and the dee!" With an abrupt last streak of his violin bow Draco ended the song. There was a moment of silence as they waited for him to go on, but then they applauded enthusiastically. Draco smiled at them, and couldn't help himself – he envied them their companionship. A well-known, but always unacknowledged feeling crept back into his heart: He wanted to belong.

"Thank you. Our next song is a _jig_ and you're all invited to dance!" Draco grinned when Druid jumped up from the padded bench and demonstrated an Irish step dance. The _clippity-clop_ of his metal soles on the worn, wood-planked floor was infectious.

Potter joined him and made a complete fool of himself, trying to copy Druid's steps. While Draco and his band played on, Druid showed Potter an easy step sequence and when Potter managed it, most of the other Gryffindors joined them in the wide space inside the circle of chairs. The Bats sang along or clapped in the rhythm of the drum until Draco let the song die with a long-drawn-out last note.

There was a bit of milling around until everybody found his or her seat and beer again, and then they all looked up expectantly at Draco.

"I wasn't aware that we have such skilled dancers in our ranks tonight. Thank you all for showing your talent! Please make yourselves comfortable now and make sure to have your pint refilled." 

Draco tucked his instrument in its velvet-coated case and, as it often did, the sight made him think of his father. Lucius would spin in his coffin like the mad-man he had been in life, if he knew that Draco played Irish folk music instead of the beautiful classic pieces he'd always been forced to perform after dinner for Lucius' Death-Eater friends. Well, not everything his father had taught him was bad; as much as he'd hated it as a child, today, playing the fiddle with his band was one of Draco's favourite diversions.

Pub Quiz time. Draco had a very special prize for tonight's winner. Tarkan, a famous Turkish singer, had offered free tickets to the local restaurants, bars, pubs and shops if they featured a poster announcing his concert in their windows. Draco was very fond of Tarkan, the man's unruly black hair and his bright green eyes were irresistible and not understanding the lyrics was the best excuse to stare at his lips the whole time while singing along in his own gibberish. Like any other true fan would do, Draco planned to keep one ticket for himself, giving the other one to the winner.

"I think we can all use a break, so it's time for tonight's…Pub Quiiiiz!"

The laughter died.

"Oh come on, you all! Here are the parchment rolls and quills for your answers, don't forget to write your name on top. There will be a very special prize for tonight's winner!"

"What is it?" Of course, _of course_ it was Johnson who asked that question.

"It's a surprise. But I assure you, you'll love it."

They didn't look convinced, but Draco handed out the parchment rolls and quills regardless. _Whose beer I drink, whose game I play_. Draco rolled his eyes to himself. He was growing fond of the strangest things recently. Proverbs. Gryffindors. _Potter_.

Twenty questions and about an hour later the winner was announced.

"And the winner is – Harry Potter!" Draco searched the room with his eyes for Potter, though he perfectly knew where he was sitting. There was no denying: He'd ogled the man cautiously the whole evening. And Potter had caught him _every_ bloody time! Annoying. Very.

Potter smiled and came up front to receive his prize. Draco smiled back, and held Potter's gaze. Tonight, the green waters that they reminded him of, were calm and clear, inviting Draco to dive in and cool his heated cheeks.

"Go maire tú – Congratulations! Here's your prize." Draco offered Potter the ticket. Potter read it and his eyes grew wide with – yeah, with what?

"A ticket for a Tarkan concert?"

"Yes, look. It's written here in very readable letters: T-A-R-"

"I can read, thank you. I was just asking because I tried to get a ticket when I heard that Tarkan would give a concert here. But they were all sold out, so I wonder where you got it?" Potter sounded a bit exasperated. Well, _a stupid question deserved a stupid answer_.

"Oh, er, my apologies, then. So you like it?"

"Very much, yes. Will you come with me?" Potter reached for the ticket and his fingers brushed Draco's, which twitched in an unwitting attempt to answer the accidental caress.

"If you want me to?"

"I want you to." The waves in Potter's eyes splashed joyfully behind his glasses and Draco cleared his throat and busied himself with taking his fiddle out of its case once more. "All right. As you all need to be in good shape for tomorrow's match I suggest we call it a night. Are you all up for one last song?"

__________________________________

  
**Friday**

**"Nuair atá gáire le feiceáil i súile Éireannacha, tá rud éigin ag tárlú de gnáth."**  
_When Irish eyes are smiling, they're usually up to something._

Draco had left today's duties at the brewery to his trustworthy shift supervisor, in order to watch the friendly match. Most of the families of the Ballycastle Bats had come, and they all sat on wooden benches on a makeshift, but solid observation platform. It levitated in wide circles around the Quidditch pitch.

Which – in Draco's opinion – wasn't a real pitch. The match would take place high above the waves of the North Atlantic. Hovering over the surface of the dark water, the six elevated goal-rings, three on each side of the Quidditch pitch, glinted in the sunlight. Draco shaded his eyes with one hand to watch the teams, who hadn't mounted their brooms yet. They stood on the cliffs of Céide, tiny figures against the enormous horizon.

It was a brisk but not very windy day in early autumn. The sun was shining but hadn't the strength to heat the salty air. Draco was glad he'd brought a jumper. He inhaled deeply and marveled at the bright colours around him. The ocean was dark blue and the cliffs rising from it showed stripes of colours from light grey to dark brown. They were crowned by still-lush green grass and farther behind, the wheatfields shone golden like the pot at the end of the rainbow.

A single broom came into sight. Draco recognised Druid, who had closed his studio for today to act as referee. Druid was carrying the large wooden box which held the Quidditch balls under one arm. He flew small circles at the centre of the pitch and waited for the teams, who finally rose in the air. Draco squinted. Though he could easily tell the teams by the colours of their gear – blood-red for the Bats, black and white for the Magpies – he still wasn't able to see their faces.

Draco shifted his gaze to the Bats. He knew that Finbar was a very sharp-eyed, versatile Seeker and though he hadn't seen Potter fly since he'd left Britain, he remembered his talent very well. The two Seekers were a good match, as far as Draco could tell, and that alone promised a dramatic game. He nodded to himself, looking forward to the match.

When all players signaled their readiness, Druid released the balls and threw the Quaffle high up in the air. The Snitch shot up towards the sky and Draco remembered why he preferred cloudy weather for Quidditch. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes as he tried to keep them on the tiny golden ball which flapped it's silver wings, like an eye batting its lashes.

The game exploded into action. The Beaters immediately attacked Johnson-Weasley, and Cian swerved past them in order to go after the Quaffle. Reamonn and Coote quickly batted the Bludgers away from their teammates and towards the Chasers of the opposing team.

Draco held his breath when Robins had to push her broom downward at a very challenging angle to avoid getting hit by the Bludger. She tried to pass the Quaffle to Johnson-Weasley, but missed her by quite a bit because she had to let go of the ball too quickly. Struggling not to hit the water, she yanked her broom upward with both hands.

To his own surprise Draco heard himself sighing when Robins lost the Quaffle. He fiddled with the cuticle he'd forgotten to cut away yesterday. The Bats were his closest friends beside the band and Druid. Why then was he not happy to see them in the lead? He decided to stay as neutral as possible because he didn't want either of the teams to win _or_ lose.

But he didn't manage to stay unbiased. "Come on, Peakes, that Bludger's got Aoife's name written all over it!"

"What did he say?" the old lady who sat behind him asked the girl sitting next to Draco.

"He said that Peakes should bat the Bludger at Aoife," the girl screamed into the ear of her obviously half-deaf grandmother; or whatever relation they were to each other. With all the redheads, Draco was never sure. At home, a redhead was a Weasley. But here, it wasn't that easy. Did an aged Molly Weasley look as weird as this old lady with her flame-coloured hair mostly gone grey? It reminded Draco of an almost-extinguished campfire, a lot of light grey ashes and only a few glowing wooden sticks in between.

Now the campfire-hair woman poked him in the back. "Why don't you commentate for us all instead of only to yourself?" Her voice was creaky and very loud. Everybody else on the observation platform pricked up their ears. A child's voice rang through the sudden silence. "Yes, mamaí, why doesn't he commentate? _Your_ explanations are totally confusing." The little boy turned to Draco. "Please, can you do it?"

Draco looked into the cerulean eyes of the child and all his resistance melted away. "Okay. But only if you sit down here and share your hot chocolate with me." Carefully, the boy balanced a huge mug over the benches, legs and bags and reached Draco without spilling a drop. Draco used the time to point his wand at his throat and cast a Sonorus.

"Here. It's very good. Seanmháthair's secret recipe."

Draco took a sip and gave the mug back. "Very good, and look what your grandmother's secret ingredients did to my voice!" His voice boomed over the observation platform and the boy's eyes became big and round as Bludgers. "Sit down." Draco patted the space in front of his knees. "I need a co-commentator."

Draco watched the match for a moment to catch up with what was going on. Then he launched into his commentary. "Angelina Johnson-Weasley owns the Quaffle. She's fast as the wind and— Oh no, that was Brendan Leod blocking and snatching the Quaffle from her. That Bludger really looks aggressive and if they're not careful— That was a clever maneuver from Johnson-Weasley, leading the Bludger on and then diving out of its way to let Leod take the hit! Good grief, Leod looks quite shaken, oh good, he's still upright, but— Ouch, not fast enough and that was Johnson-Weasley, scoring 10 points for Gryff— er, the Montrose Magpies!"

"Now Fiona's got the Quaffle!" The boy took his co-commentator-duties seriously.

"Yes, and she's very fast andhow clever she outflew Demelza Robins! But Robins is on her tail and Johnson-Weasley is coming up from behind. Where is— Ah, here comes the third Chaser of the Magpies and— Whoa, that was a sharp dive, but it's alright, no foul here, and he's got the Quaffle now! Oh no, both Bludgers are on him, where are the Beaters?"

Draco shifted on his seat, torn between loyalty to his Irish friends and his former fellow students. The game gained momentum, both teams flying hazardous manoeuvres at full speed, showing a lot of tricks and dives and sprints.

"Jimmy Peakes saved him, and look at the Bludger war between him and Malachy Gordon. I almost pity that poor Bludger! It seems to be a bit daft, letting itself be beaten back and forth so many times! Ah, see, now it escaped and – evil thing, that is – is going after Harry Potter. What is Potter doing down there among the players? Is he hunting the Snitch?

"Do you see the Snitch somewhere?" Draco nudged his co-commentator.

"Yes! There! Right above the highest goal of the Bats!" Hot chocolate sloshed on Draco's shoes while the boy bounced with excitement. Well, nothing a Scourgify couldn't fix.

"Right, now I see it, too! And Finbar Quigley is in on the hunt as well, chasing Potter and trying to get past him!" Draco was getting excited, too. A Snitch-hunt was always one of the highlights of a match.

"Oh no, Quigley is blocking my view. I can't see the Snitch. Where is it? Did any of them catch it? Potter dives, the Snitch must fly beneath main playing level now. I still can't see it. Ah, there, there, it looks as if it's having fun dancing on the waves! Fickle little thing! Oh, and here we can admire one of my favourite Quidditch stunts, a Wronski Feint! Harry Potter is known to be one of the most daring flyers of the whole league, but Quigley is very versatile, too! Good grief, they're both going down full speed! This can't end well, one will drown, I'm certain!"

Draco was shouting by now, in spite of the Sonorus. Adrenalin pumped through his veins as he remembered hunting the Snitch side by side with Potter.

"The Snitch, it's shooting up, it's mocked them!" He jumped up from his seat, following the Snitch with his eyes. "It goes up quickly, a golden blur passing the Seekers right behind their backs, but there is nothing they can do. Did you see that? The twigs of Potter's broom touched the waves. That man has balls. I've seldom seen a crash avoided in the last second like that.

"I think Potter is angry. Look at his face! I fear for the Snitch! Where is it, by the way? And where is Quigley? Good grief, Leod missed that Bludger and it's coming straight at Quigley. Dive, Finbar, _dive_! Good grief, that was close! Now Harry Potter has the advantage. Go, Harry!" _Harry_?

Draco couldn't remember ever having called Potter by his first name. Maybe it had to do with the way Potter was handling his broom, like a rider taming a wild, bucking stallion: Yanking up the nose for a full braking, flattening down over its handle like over a horse's neck to go faster, sitting on it at leisure with only one hand at the stick when he watched out for the Snitch. This air of nonchalance, combined with the recklessness that sometimes bordered on madness, yeah, that was sexy. Draco shook his head. Whatever, he had no time to think about that now, he had a match to commentate.

"Oooh, I think this match will be over soon. See how Potter lies down flat on his broom to gain speed? He's on the Snitch hunt in earnest, now he's extending his arm and—"

"He's got it! He's got it!" Screaming at the top of his lungs, the little boy jumped up and down, spilling the rest of his hot chocolate on Draco's feet.

"Game's over. Final score is fifty points for the Bats and one hundred ninety points for the Magpies!" Draco sat down, exhausted as if he had played himself.

"It was a great game!" Still bouncing like an excited Pygmy Puff, the boy almost dropped his mug.

Draco muttered a Quietus, returning the volume of his voice to normal. "Yes, but you realise that it's the Magpies who won, not the Bats, right?"

"Doesn't matter! You are a very good commentator! Thank you!"

Draco watched him climb back to his mother. With a Wingardium Leviosa he sent the empty cup over to her. She caught it out of the air and mouthed a "Thank you".

Draco's audience applauded and he turned around to face them, blushing from all the friendly looks. Every single person beamed at him, happy about something he had done and that was a rare experience for him.

"Thank you, young man." The old lady with the funny hair came forward and clasped his hand with both of hers. He smiled at her and she hobbled away, clinging to the arm of her granddaughter.

Draco Apparated to the cliff and waited until the teams had landed and exchanged the usual compliments and congratulations. When he thought the moment was right, he walked up to Potter. It was only polite to congratulate the winning team's captain, and he had to remind Potter of the Tarkan concert which would take place this evening. In case he forgot.

Potter took off his glasses to polish them with the hem of his uniform shirt. He was so focused on the action that he startled when Draco extended his hand to congratulate him. Without the lenses obscuring them, Potter's eyes appeared even greener than yesterday. Today, their colour reminded Draco of the grassy hills that stretched like a sea of emerald towards the horizon – Potter had Irish eyes.

"Hey, Ma— my friend!" Potter's smile turned into a grin at his almost-slip. Draco quirked an eyebrow. Potter had never called him a friend before and though Draco knew that it was only to cover the almost-use of his real name, it was a nice change. He took it as a good sign.

"Great game, Potter! You still fly like a hungry hippogriff on the hunt."

"I'm known for pursuing a goal very stubbornly." The wind freshed up in Potter's eyes and Draco was glad when he put his glasses back on; as if the framed lenses would protect him from being sucked into the green tornado again. With some effort, he looked away, searching shelter behind his manners, settling for niceties.

"I just wanted to congratulate you and your team. The Bats are seldom outflown on their own pitch because mostly the other teams get distracted by the unusual setting. So, great game, really." He darted a glance into Potter's smiling eyes and another of Finbar's wife's proverbs swam to the surface of his mind: _When Irish eyes are smiling, they're usually up to something_. If Draco read the signs right, that saying contained some truth. Hopefully.

"You won't forget about the concert tonight, will you?"

"Of course not! But thank you for the reminder. Will you pick me up at Finbar's and we can go there together?"

"Very well. See you later." Draco paused. "Harry."

He Apparated away hastily, not wanting to hear a sarcastic comment on his sudden use of Potter's first name.

__________________________________

  
**Friday**

**"Go mbéadh an crogacht ionat seans a thogáil, agus gan froganna a fháil id' bhríste."**  
_May you always have courage to take a chance, and never find frogs in your underpants._

When they arrived at the concert area the security-wizard manning the entrance marked the backs of their hands with a stamp. It looked as if someone who had used too much of a very red lipstick had kissed them there. Draco thought it was a reference to Tarkan's most famous song.

He told Harry to follow him closely and weaved through the crowd to the front row. At first, they maintained some space between them, but when the place got packed, more and more people started pushing from the sides and behind, and they ended up standing close to one another. Not that Draco was complaining, and Harry seemed comfortable with the situation as well.

Tarkan greeted the audience with a "Céad Míle Fáilte". His Gaelic was heavy with his Turkish accent, but the crowd hooted in appreciation of his effort.

"It means 'One hundred thousand welcomes'," Draco translated for Harry.

"I know. Druid's got a sign with that greeting on his door." Though Harry was shouting, Draco had to lean in close to his mouth to understand.

Did that mean Harry had a tattoo done by Druid, too? He wondered what that could be. A lion? Or a stag? Both motives would make beautiful pictures, especially when drawn by Druid and brought to life with his unique magic. The Hungarian Horntail tattoo on his back was full of magical power which sizzled in his blood when the dragon moved around on his body. Draco looked at Harry's torso, but he wore a jumper today, so Draco had no chance to get a glimpse of the skin underneath.

Fortunately the music set in before Draco's brain lost contact with reality completely to happily roll around in visions of a naked Potter – _Harry_ – covered with tattoos from neck to ankle. He watched Harry out of the corner of his eye while he pretended to be fully engaged with the events on stage, not daring to sing along in his personal gibberish, though he really wanted to.

Harry nudged him and flashed a broad grin. He opened his mouth and Draco laughed when he heard him sing Turkish-sounding gibberish, not caring for the melody. Draco joined him, but after the first few syllables the situation struck him as so surreal and hilarious that he had to hold on to Harry not to tumble over from laughing so hard.

Everytime he thought the laughing fit had passed, one glance at Harry was enough to make them both shake with laughter again. When they finally were too exhausted to even snicker, Harry let go of him. His green eyes were still smiling, but the hysteria was gone and replaced by something else. His hand slid down Draco's arm, over his wrist and—

Draco closed his fingers around Harry's. He'd forfeited so many chances in the past that could have changed the course of his life for the better; he wouldn't let go of this one.

An awkward shyness spread between them. But their eyes met frequently, and every time they smiled at each other and squeezed their hands. Draco realised that the concert was probably coming to an end soon when the singer on stage announced the next song with a smacking, kiss-like sound into the microphone.

This was Draco's favourite song of Tarkan's and he had his own, complete gibberish version of it. He happily sang along and when the chorus came, without thinking he turned to Harry who had turned around too and they pursed their lips in fake kisses whenever the lyrics required it.

Draco feared the moment the music would end and leave them stranded back in reality. Until now, everything they had done could be wiped away with a laugh and a wink, blaming the lack of space, the gibberish, the laughter and the song. Determinedly, Draco firmly held on to Harry's hand and didn't let go of it for the final applause. Harry joined the whistles and shouts as if nothing special had happened, but his thumb was stroking the back of Draco's hand.

There was still too much noise to talk, so they made their way to the exit in mutual silence. Instead of taking the way back to Ballycastle, Draco led Harry to the edge of the cliff. The sun was sinking into the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of purple, red and orange. The dark-grey ocean was dusted with amber-coloured reflections, as if autumn itself had sprinkled it with glowing leaves.

"We never see anything like this in London."

Draco looked at Harry who was taking in the sight as if it was his first sunset ever. Harry spoke in a low voice, as if talking to himself. "I could live here. It's so peaceful, nobody is stressed out, there’s no rush-hour, people come together in the pub to sing and dance – I like that."

"Yes," Draco replied thoughtfully, "it has its appeal. And people here don't judge you by your marks – or scars – but by your actions."

"That must make for a nice change."

"It does. Hey, what do you think of a sight-seeing broom-ride tomorrow?" Draco asked, trying to get back to the wistful mood they'd shared only a few minutes ago. Harry's eyes were still serious when he met Draco's. They were calm, but dark shadows moved beneath the green, like merpeople keeping watch under the surface of the Great Lake. "Sounds perfect. Let's meet here, I want to see what sunrise does to this place."

Draco looked down to where his fingers were still interlaced with Harry's. Exchanges of affection had been so easy in the light atmosphere of the concert, why was it so difficult now? Something had changed, or shifted, even. He felt closer to Harry than ever before, and yet there was the old distrust and caution between them. He sighed. They stood at the beginning of a new chapter in their common history, and though Draco sensed hesitancy on Harry's part, he was ready to leave well-known ground behind.

Reluctantly, Draco let go of Harry's hand and said: "See you tomorrow, then. Thanks for the evening, I enjoyed the concert with you very much."

"Me, too."

Draco didn't know what to think when Harry Disapparated without another word.

__________________________________

  
**Saturday**

**"Gaire chun tú a shásaimh agus siúd atá in aice leat atá grá agat dóibh.**  
**Agus iomlán atá de dhíth ó do chroíse."**  
_Laughter to cheer you_  
_And those you love near you._  
_And all that your heart may desire._

Draco Apparated to the cliff when the stars faded in the first rays of daylight, only to discover that Harry was already waiting for him. Thankful, he accepted the paper cup of coffee Harry offered him. "I hope it's still hot enough. Finbar's wife gave me a long lecture on Irish proverbs over breakfast; I was so distracted that I almost forgot about the Warming Charm."

Draco took a sip. The coffee wasn't as hot as he preferred, but it was the thought that counted here. "It's perfect, thank you."

He smiled and looked at Harry, hoping that his melancholy mood of the previous night had lifted. Harry appeared well rested and the shadows guarding his eyes had disappeared. That was promising and they still had all day. Draco would make the best of it. "Let's sit on the edge and enjoy the sunrise."

Though the sun was raising behind them, they sat down to look over the ocean. It was cold, this early in the morning, and Draco was glad for the warmth of Harry's shoulder, arm and thigh that pressed against his. Silence stretched between them and Harry didn't make any attempts to hold hands, but Draco was comfortable and optimistic.

While the ocean turned into a dazzling plate of blueish silver, he watched the seagulls diving for fish, listened to their dissonant cries and the soothing rhythm of the waves while he sipped his slowly-cooling coffee. His spirits revived and when he glanced over at Harry he caught him doing the same. They both laughed and the awkwardness between them melted into thin air.

Draco pointed his wand at their paper cups and vanished them. "Did you know that vanished things and things to be conjured share the same parallel universe while they don't exist in ours?"

Harry grinned and nudged him. "Gobshite."

"Ouch! Your knowledge of the Gaelic language is impressive!"

Harry got up, mounted his broom – the latest model of the Firebolt-series – and patted the part of the broomstick where a passenger would sit. Where Draco had sat once, when they had escaped a certain death.

Draco wondered for a moment if broom-riding with Harry wouldn't stir up too many horrible memories, but then reluctantly admitted to himself that he was more afraid that something else might stir. Well, he would deal with that challenge if and when it rose.

Harry waited for Draco to climb up behind him. Draco tried to keep a small distance between their upper bodies, but co-riding a broom meant clinging to the pilot like a girl to a Pygmy Puff.

Harry shot up in an elegant half-circle and when they were high enough to take in the breathtaking sight of the cliffs and the ocean on their right and the green hills and golden fields to their left, he asked: "Where to?"

"Fly along the causeway, I'll give further directions when necessary." Draco pointed in the direction he wanted Harry to fly. Harry turned until the broom-handle was in line with Draco's stretched arm. "Ready?"

Instead of an answer Draco firmly wrapped his arms around Harry's waist in a not familiar, but well-remembered manner, and they both bent low to speed up.

The grey band of the road meandered along the coastline beneath them, and though it was autumn, as soon as they had left the wheat fields behind, the dominant colour became green. Emerald green, like all the ads for tourists promised.

The small hills were stretching as far as the eye could see and Draco got a bit carried away by the peacefulness of the moment. Everything was quiet, except the sounds of the seagulls and the whooshing of the wind in his ears. Harry's back was warm against his chest and stomach, he smelled of coffee and his jumper was a bit rough, but that was fine by Draco. He was just about to rest his cheek on Harry's shoulder blade to relax and enjoy the flight, when Harry turned his head. "Which way?"

Draco looked ahead where the causeway split in two directions. "Left."

He pointed at a mighty sea stack about eighty metres from the shore. Rising up from the ocean to the height of the cliffs, it was a dramatic sight. The wind picked up and the incoming surf licked up high around the stack, spray wafting up like fog.

"That's Dún Briste. My favourite place." Draco couldn't hide the pride in his voice, as if he was the creator of this beautiful scene.

Harry flew around Dún Briste, through rainbows that appeared and dissolved in the misty spray which was colder than Draco had assumed. Loose strands of hair hung wetly down the sides of his face.

Watching the wild waves slamming against the rock beneath them woke something very wild and pure in Draco. Harry seemed to feel it too, he hooted and dived down into a valley between two huge waves. Walls of icy, dark water grew higher and higher, the crests already arching above them, until Harry yanked up the broom-handle, shooting out of danger just in time.

Harry flew them farther out where the really big waves were rolling in and they rode one, even dipping the broom into the water's surface. When the wave broke, they ducked low over the handle and entered the turquoise tunnel. To Draco, it was like flying through the eye of a horizontal tornado. Though the water around them moved and swirled, it looked hard and solid like glass. He saw a shark passing by and a creepy piece of kelp seemed to reach out for Draco like a giant Grindylow.

Cold emanated from the wave, as if they were flying through a crevasse. Looking ahead, Draco's heartbeat sped up – the bright circle at the end of the blue pipe got smaller and smaller, and with a shudder he realised that the water around them wasn't clear or turquoise anymore. No rays of sun reached them down here.

Dark blue and opaque and beautiful in its merciless indifference the ocean closed in on them. Not granted a last hopeful look at the sky, fear gripped Draco's gut with cold, slimy fingers while the weight of the water mass seemed to press all remaining oxygen out of his lungs, making them scream for air.

Hearing a terrifying roar, Draco glanced over his shoulder. Mesmerised, unable to look away, he watched as the glassy blue wall collapsed and turned into a boiling, violent maelstrom, coming after them faster than any broom could fly.

Pulse racing, he pressed his nose against Harry's shoulder blade, trying to find comfort in the faint trace of Harry's scent. Already, first droplets of icy foam wetted his bare neck. Harry bent even lower, and Draco copied his move until they lay almost flat on the broom, trying to gain the tiny bit of extra speed they needed to stay ahead of the all-consuming uproar behind them.

A massive cascade hit the broom’s twigs, causing it to buck wildly, and Draco knew they were lost. Clinging to Harry's back, he inhaled deeply for a last time and closed his eyes, waiting for the ocean to finally swallow them.

Sunlight and warmth hit his face. Harry yanked the broom upward and Draco looked down at the last remnants of the crashing wave which still spit foam and splashes at them. The world was brighter for him now, and something bubbled up in his chest.

Harry yelled with exhilaration, and he joined him. He felt one with nature, filled with wonder and a raw and overwhelming joy he was happy to share with Harry.

They landed on top of the sea stack, on grass that was stiff and grey with salt. As soon as the broom touched the ground, they stood and hugged each other, still not quite able to believe they were alive after they had been so close to drowning.

Cautiously, afraid to disturb the solemn mood of the moment, Draco reached for Harry's cheek. The strong breeze whipped their hair into their faces and between their gently meeting lips. It didn't matter. The wildness of nature belonged to that moment like the warmth of Harry's lips and the salt he tasted on them.

Harry's hands came up, cupping Draco's face, and he broke the kiss to look into Draco's eyes. His own were stormy again, churning like the ocean beneath them. He didn't need to say what Draco understood anyway.

_I've been wanting this since we escaped the Fiendfyre. And I've always been wondering if you want it too?_

He answered, certain that it wouldn't matter if Harry heard him or not because Harry already knew anyway. "I wanted it then and I want it now."

Harry's eyes kept searching his, as if his answer hadn't been enough to convince him.

But then his mouth was back on Draco's, lips dry and rough from wind and salt, and Draco wrapped his arms around him. For the first time in his life, he allowed his brain to shut down and to only feel. There was the warmth of Harry's body and the softness of his lips which tasted of salt and coffee, and caressing Harry's tongue with his own sent new vibes directly to Draco's groin.

Adrenalin and arousal merged, pumping desire through his veins. Pure, hot, strong – invigorating like a cup of black coffee after a sleepless night. He explored Harry's back with his hands, the valley of the spine and the small hollows right above where Harry's belt held his jeans in place. The leather of the belt was smooth and soft under his palms and he wondered what Harry's skin would feel like. He slipped his hands inside the back pockets and clutched the firm butt cheeks underneath the cloth.

In reply, he felt Harry's kiss grow more demanding, his tongue playing eagerly with Draco's own. Harry's hand was cold on Draco's nape where it freed his hair of the elastic, while Harry's other arm caught him around the waist and pulled him closer until their groins touched.

The wind tore at Draco's now-loose hair and blew through his jumper, the touch of cool air hardening his nipples. Again, he felt one with the elements. It was as if nature was responding to their increasing excitement – the messier their kisses got, the stronger the storm blustered around them, and the louder the waves crashed against the column of rock they stood on. As if the blood filling their cocks had called for the tide to set in.

He pulled away from Harry's lips.

"What's wrong?" Harry shouted, his eyes worried.

"Nothing! I just thought a Weathershield and a Warming Charm would be a good idea," Draco yelled back.

"Um, yeah, right. Sorry, I should have thought of that earlier! I tend to forget that Molly knits a permanent Warming Charm into my jumpers. You must be freezing!" Draco fumbled through his pockets for his wand, but Harry was faster. "Ah, here."

Watching Harry smoothly drawing waves and loops into the air, his lips moving in rhythm, Draco couldn't deny that Harry was much more apt at protective charms than himself. Probably the outcome of a year on the run and the constant fear of being attacked by the Dark Lord. Draco's skin tingled, and his first impulse was to check his Mark, afraid that thinking of Voldemort might have activated it. But the faded lines were numb to the touch as always and he realised that it was the abrupt absence of wind and the sudden warmth which had caused the prickling sensation. Now he could relax into the feeling, it was like sitting close to a campfire.

"Thank you. It's much better now, don't you think?" He winked at Harry. "But there is always a way to improve an already good condition." Draco cast a Cushioning Charm and grabbed Harry's belt buckle to pull him down with him. Harry laughed, locked his arms around him and rolled them around a few times. Harry's glasses were in the way and coming to a halt, Draco sat up on Harry's thighs to pluck them from his face. Looking around for his wand which he'd lost during their playful fight for the top position, he spotted dark clouds gathering on the horizon and was suddenly very aware of the loud howling of the wind.

But then his fingers closed around the wooden rod and he concentrated on his task again. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The glasses hovered over the tip of his wand and to make sure they wouldn't suffer any damage, he sent them up to stay right beneath the invisible hull of the Weathershield. That last nuisance dealt with, Draco breathed a small contented sigh and fully concentrated on Harry.

He pulled Harry’s jumper over his head, got rid of his own, and their t-shirts went the same way. Harry's chest was smooth and bare of hair, but from the faint hint of stubble beneath his fingertips Draco could tell that Harry shaved it to keep it that way. He nipped lightly at Harry's nipples until they grew hard between his lips, standing up like tiny tower ruins of light brown stone on top of the hills that were Harry's chest muscles.

Draco kissed him deep and hard, fumbling with Harry's belt buckle until the leather strip slid out of the clasp. Touching Harry's erection through fabric wasn't enough, so Draco broke the kiss to free him from his jeans and pants. The dark tanned skin of Harry's torso and legs stood in stark contrast to the paleness of the area the sun hadn't been allowed access to. Black, curly hair framed a thick, almost fully erect cock of a promising size.

Gently closing his fist around it, Draco looked up to make eye contact with Harry and to acknowledge that very intimate moment. Harry's eyes were wide open, and just when Draco bent down for another kiss, a shadow slid over Harry's face, darkening the irises to a mossy green. Like their cocks, the black clouds of the approaching thunderstorm had sprung up, towering dangerously over them and quickly swallowing the last islands of blue sky.

Harry seemed to notice that Draco was distracted and turned his head. Obviously, his vision wasn't _that_ bad without his glasses, because he startled at the sight of the tempest that had built up behind their backs while they had been busy. They exchanged a look, searching each others' eyes, then grinned and nodded. Draco was glad that Harry apparently thought the same: It would be wise to Apparate, but the contrast between the warmth and peace inside their Weathershield bubble and the raging forces of nature on the outside created an irresistible atmosphere.

The air was fraught with static that made Draco's body hair stand up and Harry's too, as he could tell from where his hand still rested on Harry's arm. Harry's cock swelled further in his fist and his own prick responded by straining desperately against his pants.

Looking down to where his fingers were wrapped around Harry, Draco licked his lips and enjoyed the moment when Harry swallowed in understanding. He bent down to taste him, swirled the head with his tongue before closing his lips around it to gently lick and suck. Harry's moans were barely audible over the whooshing of the wind blowing around their protective dome.

When the tip of his tongue found Harry's tiny slit, Harry buried his fingers in Draco's hair, trying to push him down. Draco let go of Harry and sat up to unbuckle his own belt. Lying down on his back, he wriggled out of his trousers. Harry got up to help him, his cock bouncing against his stomach, his eyes glued to where he was concentrating on getting Draco out of his pants.

When Draco was naked, Harry lay down with him and started stroking both their pricks with one hand, his eyes never leaving Draco’s. The unique feeling of another cock rubbing against his own made Draco’s spurt a bit of pre-come, indicating that he was more than ready to go.

He didn't know Harry's preferences, but if he could have his way, for their first time, he wanted to be the one on top. An exchange of heated glances was enough to let Draco know that they both were eager to proceed. He reached down to open Harry's clenched fist and freed their cocks; then Harry turned around on all fours, presenting a delectable pair of butt-cheeks.

Which Draco didn't deign to look at, gasping mesmerised at the sight of Harry's back.

He recognised the species of dragon: it was an Icelandic Icebreather. He touched the stream of ice the beast was breathing over Harry's shoulder blade, and startled when it whipped its head around to face him. Quicksilver eyes pierced him until it dropped its gaze. Draco followed its stare and saw the head of his own Hungarian Horntail peeking over his shoulder. The two seemed to be curious to get to know each other.

Draco returned his focus to Harry, happy that the dragon tattoos were occupied with each other. But when he traced the sharp horizontal line that separated tanned from pale skin and ended right above Harry's cleft with a fingernail, the Icebreather scowled at him. Obviously it was very protective. Draco was so fascinated that he didn't notice the Horntail crawling down his arm until it stretched its head over the back of his hand and his fingers to sniff the other dragon. Harry squirmed in Draco's grip, probably from the prickling sensation of the tattoo moving on his skin.

"Harry—" Draco said, staring unbelievingly at the snout of the silver-white dragon that had just appeared on his fingernails to meet the one of the Horntail in what looked to Draco like a kind of welcome kiss. The light movement of Harry's back when he turned his head was enough for both dragons to hastily retreat and return to their usual places. Watching the Icebreather curl up and hide its head under a wing, Draco assumed that his own dragon tattoo was doing the same. 

"Later," he told Harry, smiling into his questioning eyes.

"What was it?" Harry wanted to know, but instead of an answer Draco groped his butt cheeks and threw him a mischievous grin. Harry frowned and Draco sighed. "Nothing that could keep me from what I've been wanting to do for hours now," he said impatiently, following his words with action by parting Harry's buttocks to look at his entrance.

Though Harry's cock was very ready as Draco checked with one hand, his hole still needed to be taken care of. Draco reached for his wand and applied a Lubrication Charm. To make sure that – except for a nosy dragon or two – nothing, _absolutely nothing_ would disturb them anymore, come hell or high water, he reinforced the Charms. Just in time.

Hell or high water were both equally apt, Draco thought, looking up abruptly when lightning struck the ocean for the first time. Harry flinched, and Draco reached between his thighs to stroke his cock in a reassuring rhythm. Thunder grumbled threateningly, echoing off the high wall of the cliffs. The waves slammed violently against the sea stack; the creepy gurgling of the retreating water conjured a picture of a giant maelstrom in Draco's head, trying to suck them in. Black clouds circled above them and the grass outside their bubble was flattened by the storm.

On another day, in another situation, Draco would have been intimidated by the forces of nature roaring around them, but right now, the danger only fueled his arousal. From what he could tell by the pounding cock in his fist, Harry was similarly affected. Draco looked at Harry's now generously slicked hole and bent down to caress the tight opening with his tongue, while his own cock twitched, wet with pre-come. His need for penetration was hard to resist, but he wanted this to be perfect for them both and so he took his time to prepare Harry.

When Harry's soft moans had turned into urgent groans, Draco brought the tip of his cock to Harry's entrance and pressed down, a sharp exhale escaping his mouth. Harry gasped and froze. Slowly, Draco pushed forward, parting Harry's butt cheeks with both hands to widen him. There was still some resistance when he breached him, but Harry didn't seem to mind.

Draco retreated and pushed again, harder this time, and then he was inside of Potter. Looking at his shaft partly disappearing into Potter's arse, the reality of the moment struck him, sending a shockwave of arousal to his tightening balls.

"Harry." Draco's voice was hoarse. Harry didn't react, he had thrown his head back, his black hair was swishing over his shoulders with every push of Draco's hips. "Harry!" Draco tried again, shouting now. Harry shoved back one more time, only turning his head towards Draco when Draco's cock was as deep inside of him as possible. Good grief, Draco bit his tongue to fight the urge of fucking him senseless. But it was only fair to give a warning. "I don't know if I'll last long enough. So don't hold back, okay?"

"'Kay." It sounded strangled.

Harry's loud groans and the cracks of thunder set the rhythm for Draco, who tried to keep it together, though he could barely restrain from thrusting hard into Harry's firm heat.

And then, when he was almost there, everything happened at once. The black clouds above them clashed with deafening thunder, lightning shot down into the ocean around them. Knowing that they were only protected from nature's attack by a thin, invisible layer of magic, was scary, and utterly exciting, just what it had to be with Harry. Draco pushed forward and didn't care for his uncontrollable groans when his cock went up Harry's channel all the way, again and again. It was like flying through Fiendfyre once more, going faster and faster to escape, to reach salvation.

Draco pulled Harry closer to ram his cock fiercely into him as deep as possible. Harry responded to the urgency and pushed back, and then Draco didn't know anymore if it was real lightning dazzling his vision or white lights exploding behind his eyelids, if it was thunder or the hammering of his blood in his ears, when he came hard, pumping out spurt after spurt, flooding Harry's arse.

Harry came, too, if Draco read the spasms running through his body right. He clenched around Draco, hot and tight, relaxing and contracting in the rhythm of the waves attacking the sea stack. Their moans were drowned by the voices of nature and when they finally collapsed, Draco realised that heavy rain had set in, running down the hull of their bubble like a streaky, opaque curtain. The outside world had disappeared, and though Draco heard the thunderstorm raging on and smelled ozone in the electrically charged atmosphere, it was as if they were the only two people existing in the universe.

Draco lay there, spooned against Harry's back, limp as if someone had hexed him with a Brackium Emendo and vanished all his bones. His strength had left him completely, like way back when they had escaped the Fiendfyre. Being with Harry was utterly intense, dangerous and exhausting. This time the sea and the sky seemed to have made a pact with each other to hunt them down, but once again, Harry's flying skills had saved them.

And now they were here, together and alive. Satisfied, Draco relaxed into the Cushioning Charm, feeling safe and well-protected by Harry's Weathershield – reinforced with his own magic – while thunder, rainstorm and lightning attacked with all their might. Idly, he pondered the coincidence that today not only themselves but also their magic had united.

A tickle on his back made him smile. His dragon had woken up and was probably stretching its neck and tail. He looked down at Harry's back and as if on cue the Icebreather lifted its head from beneath its wing. Capturing Draco's gaze, it snarled at him. Draco teased it by planting a smacky kiss on Harry's neck, causing it to send an icy flame at the spot where his lips had touched the skin a second ago. He scratched its belly, and Harry flinched, making attempts to turn around. "No, will you please stay like you are!" Draco demanded, kissing his nape. "I'm introducing myself to your dragon and I don't think it would appreciate an interruption." Harry growled unwillingly, but sank down into the Cushioning Charm to regain his earlier pose.

Draco traced the lines of the dragon's body with the tip of his index finger, always staying a bit ahead of its snout, that followed him trying to catch him. Druid had told him about these ancient races that no wizard alive had ever seen and which were only known through traditional songs and sagas. This one was a mighty creature with a long neck, the whole body covered with plain white scales that glinted like ice in the sunshine. The half-spread wings were feathered, and white fangs lined the jaws. Right now it was breathing a glassy flame of pale-blue ice at Draco's hand. Of course it didn't hurt, his skin just tingled like it did when his own dragon moved.

He pulled his hand away, and the dragon relaxed visibly. It rested its head on its front paws, apparently its favourite pose. Only the occasional glare of one of its piercing eyes gave away that it wasn't asleep.

It looked like a beast of ice and coldness, but Draco remembered Druid describing this dragon as a creature that valued family and would rather sacrifice itself and die than let harm touch its mate or hatchlings. It lived in a world of glaciers and icy oceans and therefore was very cuddly, seeking the warmth of its family members' bodies. Draco recalled a long saga about the outstanding flying skills of that special race and nodded approvingly. Druid had chosen well.

There had been enough articles and interviews in the Daily Prophet for Draco to read all about the circumstances of Harry's boyhood: Harry had been raised in a cold atmosphere, his aunt and uncle had never shown the slightest sign of affection for him. Other things about Harry Draco had experienced himself: He had been there when Harry would rather have sacrificed himself before letting the Death-Eaters kill his friends. Harry was one of the best flyers in the International Quidditch League and, as Draco was discovering, a very cuddly person. Small wonder the Icelandic Icebreather turned out to be the perfect dragon for Harry.

Harry's voice was still husky when it interrupted Draco's musings. "Am I now allowed to turn around and kiss you?"

"You are," Draco granted generously. Harry moved slowly, as if it was a great effort to do so. "I'm happy," he said with a voice so soft that Draco had to strain his ears to understand him over the deafening clangour of thunder.

Harry's calloused hand cupped Draco's cheek, the skin of his palm rough and a bit scratchy on Draco's face, and his thumb caressed the arch of Draco's cheekbone. "And I'm sad. To think of all the years we could have had this, and instead wasted that time hating each other—"

"But we're here now. And could it be any more romantic?" Draco quirked an eyebrow and pointed at the darkness surrounding them. A lightning bolt hit the protective shell of magic, startling them both, and instinctively they clung to one another to search shelter from the blinding light and the screeching noise of electricity being absorbed by magic.

"Good grief," Draco murmured into Harry's ear which was pressed to his lips. "Your Protego is as impressive as your knowledge of the Gaelic language!" They both stared at the blue electric lines that spread across their bubble like a spider web.

Harry cupped his cheek again and turned Draco's head until their eyes met. Emerald waves rippled questioningly in his, reminding Draco of the reply he hadn't given yet. "I'm happy, too." And it was true, so very true. Happiness spread from his stomach, a warm glow that reached every nerve ending. He'd never felt better in his life. This was a precious moment, this was essential, and Draco did his best to anchor the feeling deep inside his mind.

"A certain gobshite told me that there is always a way to improve an already good condition," Harry said, and looking up, Draco smiled in anticipation, thinking that Harry was known for pursuing a goal very stubbornly.

__________________________________

  
**Sunday morning**

**"Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein."**  
_There's no fireside like your own fireside._

Draco woke up in his own bed, well-rested and lighthearted as he hadn't been in a long time. Not since he'd taken the mark, and less since he'd let Crabbe burn in the Fiendfyre. Though he _only_ dreamed of escaping the Fiendfyre every other night, he couldn't remember when he'd last had been granted such blissful, invigorating sleep. According to the never-broken pattern of alternating nightmare-haunted and sleep-like-dead nights, he had expected to wake up several times from his own screams, sweat-covered and with his heart racing in his chest. Instead he felt like a new man.

Careful not to wake Harry, he turned on his side to watch him. Harry's face was half-buried in the pillow, his fist clenched around a corner of the blanket in a childlike manner. Though Harry's arms and chest were muscular and doubtlessly belonged to a grown man, Draco's mind supplied a picture of a smaller Harry, lying in the darkness of his cupboard beneath the stairs. Afraid and not even allowed to have a teddy bear to comfort him, clutching his blanket instead. Well, despite all that he had become the most dauntless person Draco knew.

Reaching out to twirl a black strand of hair around one finger, Draco wondered if it was simply Harry's presence at his side or their second shared near-death experience that had banned the nightmares. Maybe the inexhaustible waters of the ocean had finally been able to quench the Fiendfyre ravaging his dreams.

Draco swallowed around a lump in his throat and planted a little kiss on Harry's nose.

Harry grunted unwillingly at the touch and turned to lie on his other side. His blanket slid down to his hips with the movement, and Draco startled at the sight of his back.

Two dragons slept on Harry's bare skin: his own Icebreather in the already familiar pose with its head on its front paws, and Draco's Hungarian Horntail curled up against it, their tails entwined, sidling around each other three times. Magical tattoos were known to move around on their owners' skin, but Draco had never heard that they could travel from one skin to another.

Though he understood the feelings of his dragon for Harry's very well – he would snuggle up against Harry in a second if he didn't want to wake him up – he couldn't fight a small rush of envy because the beasts had chosen Harry's back to sleep there. But thinking of the night he'd expected, his anger evaporated. Maybe the Horntail had only wished to escape Draco's twisting and turning, his sweat and his screams. He couldn't blame it for that, he would have done the same.

But now he wanted it to come back. He tickled its belly until it opened its eyes and put his hand on the strip of skin beneath it. The dragon shot him a spiteful look, very reluctantly freeing its tail from the Icebreather's. Then it slid towards his hand, and Draco watched for the first time how it transcended the invisible distance from skin to skin.

Slowly, its snout appeared on his fingertips and suddenly Draco was afraid for Harry to move, not knowing what would happen to the Horntail if he lost skin-contact with Harry as long as it was partly on Harry's and on his own skin. He imagined an effect similar to splinching and spent some breathless minutes until the dragon had safely returned to him.

"Is he gone?" Harry's voice was half-muffled by the thick pillow.

"Yes. Sorry if I woke you up."

"It wasn't you, it was your dragon. I have no idea how that's possible, but that beast has been wandering around on me for hours until it finally fell asleep. The tickling almost drove me mad," Harry said while fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand. Draco waited for him to regain proper vision before he answered.

"Did you know they can move between your skin and mine? It's amazing!"

Harry turned his head, and though Draco noticed him looking sleep-deprived, hair messier than ever, Harry's eyes were the only thing he could focus on. Their green depths appeared darker in the clear light of morning, and they shimmered like dewy moss.

"Hey. Good morning." Harry said softly and whimpered when he made an attempt to move closer to Draco. Draco understood – his own arse burned too, his thighs hurt and his lips were swollen and a bit raw from kissing Harry's stubble-surrounded mouth. Nonetheless he leaned in to kiss Harry. "Maidin mhaith." Harry grunted and boxed him lightly on the shoulder. "Gobshite."

"You really need to learn more Gaelic words if you want to live here!" Good grief. Draco pressed his lips together. They'd only spent one night together, a very special night, admittedly, but still, only one night. No need to hurry with the purchase of _His_ and _His_ towels! But, maybe, expressing honestly what he wanted or needed was a first step to overcome their old distrust.

He looked up from his fidgeting fingers to meet Harry's eyes and the words died on his tongue. The moss was gone, replaced by the first twirls of a beginning storm. Draco couldn't tell what it expressed. Inner turmoil? Regret? Maybe – most probably – no, certainly – both. Breathing became hard.

"Draco, I already thought about that and there are some things—"

Draco held up his hand, stopping Harry mid-sentence. He didn't want to hear it. Fate, that heartless bitch, had offered him a tasty bite of the carrot called love and he'd been naive enough to think that he could have all of it. Only to watch fate dump his precious carrot onto the compost heap and sneer at him.

He reactivated his former rules of life. _Never show a Gryffindor your weaknesses_ , for example, was a very useful one.

He forced a smile on his lips and made sure that it reached his eyes. "Forget it, it was just a silly joke. Yesterday was like a break from real life, but today we have to be grown-ups again and catch up with reality, right? You have a life in London, my life is here. Let's not make it more complicated than that." Thanks to lifelong training the mask of haughty indifference slid over his face; how easy it was to find comfort in the old, reliable habits he'd thought to have left behind in Britain.

"I think you should go now," he added, his own voice sounding strange in his ears.

One of Harry's hands reached out for him, slowly, uncertain, and Draco, who felt too exhausted to deal with a caress only offered for comfort, took it with both hands and shook it firmly. "You know what?" he asked, shuddering from the strong tickling sensation that suddenly rushed from his back to their clasped hands and back. From the way Harry's arms twitched he could tell that Harry also felt it. Probably their dragons, saying good-bye too.

"No, I don't," he heard Harry say.

Draco gathered his strength and looked up, expecting to meet an emerald tornado that would try to rip off every layer of disguise to lay bare his true emotions and was almost disappointed when for the first time, he saw nothing else than unruly-patterned green irises. "For once, I didn't dream of Fiendfyre."

"So, that's what you wanted to achieve? That's what this –" Harry waved his hand between them "– was about? Quenching Fiendfyre?" His voice was sad, as was his smile. Draco searched his eyes again, but they had lost their special dimension. Or maybe he had lost his ability to see the lakes and the moss and the storm in them.

"Well, that's something, isn't it?" Draco raised an eyebrow. Why was Harry making this so hard? It was what he wanted, his eyes had betrayed him.

Harry shook his head again, rolled over to his side of the bed and groaned when he stood up.

"You're right. I better go now. I don't know if Finbar got my Patronus with all that static in the air; he and his wife are probably worried about me. I don't want them to start a search operation for my ashes." It was a lame attempt at lightness that did nothing to solve the awkwardness between them. Draco nodded, not trusting his voice enough to reply.

Harry didn't even take the time to shower. Silence stretched between them while Draco watched Harry get dressed, hastily shoving his feet into the trainers he'd conveniently toed off without unlacing them. When there was nothing left to do, Harry looked at Draco and said: "If you need me, I'm only a handful of Floo powder away."

Draco didn't have an answer to that, so he just picked up Harry's jumper and held it out to him. Harry snatched it from his hand, already spinning around to Disapparate, disappearing from Draco's life without a last word or glance.

Draco sat down on Harry's side of the bed and hugged the pillow, trying to find comfort in Harry's scent. Good grief, fate was so trite. The situation was so familiar; he almost smiled, welcoming it like an old acquaintance. It all happened again, they had come full circle: They'd parted like they had after their escape from the Fiendfyre – too proud to talk, with a not-asked question and a not-given answer.

__________________________________

  
**Sunday morning**

**"Go n-éirí an bóthar leat."**  
_May the journey you are making be a safe one._

Harry Apparated to the front of Finbar's house. Breathing in the alluring scent of coffee that wafted out of the open window, he vowed to himself to deal with the whole Draco-issue later, when he was alone, and a Firewhisky would burn away the lump in his throat. Right now, he had to be strong and not give anything away. He squared his shoulders and knocked.

Finbar's wife opened the door. "Faoi dheireadh! Finbar, it's Harry! Come in, come in! We were so worried! Your Patronus broke up mid-sentence and we couldn't tell if you were unable to finish the sentence or if the Patronus had been damaged on the way by a lightning bolt. Finbar, did you hear me? Harry is back!"

Harry smiled apologetically, and followed her into the tiny kitchen where Finbar sat at the small table beneath the window. He raised his coffee mug to greet Harry while his wife shoved Harry onto a chair. "We hoped you'd be back in time for breakfast, so we waited."

"That's so kind of you, thank you! I'm sorry for causing you such distress. I had coffee with Drac— Dragan yesterday, after he had showed me around, and when the thunderstorm hit it seemed safest to stay at his place. Apparating was too dangerous with all that static in the air. I didn't want to risk splinching."

"You were right to do so. That's exactly what we feared could have happened to you. It's good to have you back in one piece!"

Finbar’s wife poured the coffee and Harry wrapped his hands around the hot ceramic of his mug. Then she pulled out her wand and started preparing what – as Harry had learned – was a typical Irish breakfast. Her bustling around reminded him of Molly.

"One or two slices of White Pudding for you, Harry?"

"Two, please. I really grew fond of Irish things during my stay. Great food, great beer, great people… I could live here."

Finbar smiled. "Céad Míle Fáilte!"

__________________________________

  
**Sunday afternoon**

**"Go mbéadh suíochan leat gan caoineadh.**  
**Go líonfadh an grá na saolta a bhogaimid gan stopadh.**  
**Agus go líonfadh ár ngrá an domhain, sciatháin na n-aingil ag cleitearnaí go séimh."**  
_May we live in peace without weeping._  
_May our joy outline the lives we touch without ceasing._  
_And may our love fill the world, angel wings tenderly beating._

Back in London, Harry bid his teammates good-bye and watched them Disapparate. They were all eager to go home and see their families or just husbands, wives or lovers. Harry thought sadly of the empty rooms at Grimmauld Place where not even Kreacher or the Screaming Portrait were waiting for him any more.

The Portkey trip had left him with the beginning of a headache, his arse still burned and his muscles were sore. As if that wasn't enough, the skin of his back tingled annoyingly from the restless movements of the dragon. Harry acknowledged grimly that he ached from head to toe. Maybe a short walk and some fresh air would help. With a sigh, he swung his duffel bag over his shoulder and headed home.

It was too early in the year for the heavy fog that was usual in late autumn or the first days of spring. But this day held more than one unpleasant surprise, and the fog already arose. Harry knew from experience that it wouldn't take long before it would cover the city like a damp veil, yet the sun was only a pale reflection in the grey sky. Too lazy to dig through his bag for his thick, Molly-knitted jumper or his wand, he hunched his shoulders against the cold and shoved his free hand deep inside the pocket of his jeans.

He hurried on; walking through the dense fog was like standing on the sea stack with Draco, their feet invisible from the misty spray that wafted up over the edge. Draco's words reverberated in his brain. _...catch up with reality, right? You have a life in London, my life is here._ Harry shuddered, his feelings of loss and loneliness intensified by the memory and the cold. He yearned for a hot bath, with a Firewhisky to take the edge off the sharp emotion that clawed through his chest like a monster.

Having rounded the last corner into Grimmauld Square, he impatiently tapped his foot while waiting for Number Twelve to appear between the neighbouring buildings.

Once inside the house, he dropped the bag at the foot of the stairs to make a beeline for the bathroom. While the tub filled slowly, he went into the living room, fetched a tumbler and poured himself a generously measured Firewhisky. Hopefully it would also help calm his dragon, which was tossing and turning on his back in a way that made Harry want to scratch his skin bloody.

He undressed, and after he had emptied his whole bottle of Murtlap Essence into the bath, he climbed in and sat down, hissing when his sore cleft burned at the first touch of the hot water. With gritted teeth he waited for the soothing effect of the healing potion to set in.

Eventually, Harry sank deeper into the comfort of the bath, until his head rested on the edge. The Murtlap Essence eased away at least the physical pain he was in, until only the prickling on his back was left, and he reached for the tumbler of Firewhisky he’d left on the small dresser beside the tub.

With the tattoo still itching, unable to relax completely, Harry replayed the last conversation with Draco in his head. Draco had joked that Harry would have to learn more Gaelic words if he wanted to live in Ballycastle. Harry's heart had done a happy leap at hearing that because he already had pondered moving there himself. He tried to sort all the different thoughts that were tumbling through his mind like a bunch of young nifflers set loose in a vault full of gold.

He had been thinking of Ron and Hermione, who were his family, but had their own family now which kept them busy. He’d thought of Grimmauld Place next, the house that Sirius had left him and which had never felt like a home. His friends and team-mates, all leaving loved ones behind and being eager to return to them when traveling from game to game during the Quidditch season. They had all found someone new to take care of them. Except for some treasured memories, there wasn't much left to hold him here.

All that had been on his mind, had occupied his brain as he was trying to find the words to express what this all meant to him. And just when he'd been about to tell Draco that he would only need some time to gather his stuff and persuade Ron to take care of the house before he could move to Ballycastle, Draco had suddenly retreated, as if he had seen something disgusting in Harry's eyes.

The itching got worse. Annoyed, still lost in thought, he scratched his back again. When his hand sank into the water before him, a faint trace of red swirled from his nails down to his thigh – he'd actually managed to draw blood. That fucking tattoo, what the hell was wrong with the beast? Muttering a curse, he jumped out of the water, not caring for the puddles or the wet footprints he left on the floor as he went to stand in front of the mirror.

Looking over his shoulder, he startled. The dragon was writhing and squirming in agony, breathing flame after flame without finding relief. All haughtiness had left the fearsome features, and its shiny black scales had faded into brittle platelets of slate. Shocked, Harry realised that Draco's Horntail was dying on his back.

The sight of the withering dragon broke Harry's inner resistance, and the hurt and the despair he'd tried so hard to keep at bay flooded his mind. Reason, pride and stubbornness drowned in the torrent and without them blocking his view, Harry could clearly see his way: The Horntail had to return to Draco, and so had he.

He couldn't live on as if nothing had changed because something _had_ – he'd finally found what he'd not even been looking for. Someone to fill the empty place in his heart.

Like he'd done in the morning, he dressed as fast as he could. Downing the Firewhisky for some liquid courage, he vowed to make it work this time. _More meaningful kisses, less not-asked questions or not-given answers_.

The pins and needles attacking his back were growing weaker and he knew he had to hurry. He walked over to the fireplace and put the empty tumbler down on the mantlepiece.

"I told you, gobshite! I'm only a handful of Floo powder away!"

__________________________________

  
**Christmas Eve**

**"Nollaig shona dhaoibh!"**  
_Merry Christmas!_

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Druid said, purring needle in hand. "Though I _knew_ the second you opened the door. It's against all reason, but the song of my magic is so loud, I can't even think straight."

"You would understand if they were roaming your skin. Wherever that place, that connection between ink and blood is to be found – they don't spend much time there!" Harry pointed his wand at Draco's back. "Episkey!"

"I wish they would!" Draco's voice sounded muffled because his face was stuck in the opening of the padded bench table. "But since they don't, Harry came up with this very thoughtful Christmas present for me."

Harry bent down to look at Draco's face. "You said you loved the idea."

"I love _you_ , that's the only reason why I endure this ordeal!"

"Ordeal – please, I know it doesn't hurt!" Harry blew him a kiss before he stood up and turned to Druid again. "They are so restless, we need to give them something to occupy themselves with."

"It's almost ready."

Harry fondly scratched the familiar spot at his shoulder where he knew his Icebreather was resting its head, hoping it would like the additional tattoo. He himself was already in love with it. Though it wasn't finished yet, it was so beautiful and delicate that he was tempted to ask Draco to sleep on his stomach for as long as it would take.

"Druid, it's stunning. Just look at that pearly shine! With the egg being such a beauty, I can't wait to see the hatchling!"

_________________ fin _________________

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave your comment here or at [Livejournal](). Comments are ♥
> 
>  
> 
>  **Translations Irish/Gaelic - English:**  
>  comrádaí - comrade  
> mo - my  
> deartháir - brother  
> athair - father  
> posóid - concoction  
> seisún - non-formal gathering of musicians to play, equivalent of a jam-session in the U.S.  
> Fidil "FIHD-el" - fiddle or violin  
> cairde - friends  
> Go maire tú! - Congratulations!  
> jig - traditional tune played in 3/4 time.  
> mamaí - mommy  
> seanmháthair - grandmother  
> maidin mhaith - good morning  
> faoi dheireadh - eventually
> 
>  **Irish names and their meanings:**  
>  Brendan ("bren+dawn"): A large number of saints have this name, which is translated variously as "prince" (from original Welsh word "brenhin") or "little raven".  
> Cian ("kee+an"): Means "ancient" and is in fact a very old name associated with a son in law of King Brian Boru.  
> Malachy ("ma+la+key"): The Anglicization of many many old Irish names that started with "mael," which means "servant" or "devotee".  
> Reamonn ("ray+-moon"): Irish for Raymond.  
> Aoife ("ee+fa"): One of the oldest Irish girls names, derived from Eva. The name of many characters in Irish legend, translates as "radiant".  
> Fiona ("fee+nuh"): From Irish word "fion" which means "fair" or "clear".


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